


three clicks and i'm home

by realtalk127



Category: Wynonna Earp (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon-adjacent, for now, just a little drabble about Nicole and Rachel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:08:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25704895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/realtalk127/pseuds/realtalk127
Summary: Escape.Get to the truck.Get to the hospital.Get help.Get home.--Some thoughts on Nicole and Rachel shortly after Wynonna jumps through the portal.
Relationships: Waverly Earp/Nicole Haught, Wynonna Earp & Nicole Haught
Comments: 11
Kudos: 195





	three clicks and i'm home

**Author's Note:**

> Just had to jot this one down before it becomes definitively not canon in 6 days. :) 
> 
> Title is from [this incredible song](https://youtu.be/ZC6mEJ5i5y8).

_Escape._

_Get to the truck._

_Get to the hospital._

_Get help._

_Get home._

_Escape._

_Get to the truck._

_Get to the hospital._

_Get help._

_Get home._

_Escape._

_Get to the truck._

_Get to the hospital._

_Get help._

_Get **home.** _

“Now what?”

Nicole lets out a quick little sigh that wants to be a laugh. 

_Fuck if I know,_ she thinks. 

“We wait,” is what she says. 

Nicole is reclining length-wise on the couch, her bad leg now freshly casted and elevated along the length of the couch, her back leaning against one of the armrests, her good leg bent so her foot can rest flat on the floor, grounding her. Rachel sits slouched in one of the armchairs, hands folded across her stomach, boots planted firmly on the hardwood, hair falling into her face. 

No more adrenaline, no more zombies — hell, not even any concerned doctors who really aren’t buying this whole rock climbing story — just two complete strangers staring at each other across the living room. 

Rachel nods, a slower, accepting sigh of her own slipping out. “You hungry?” she asks. 

_Get to the hospital, get help, get home…_

_Get home…_

_Get **home.**_

Nicole isn’t sure if she can manage food at the moment, but she thinks Rachel should probably eat something. “Yeah. You?”

“Yeah.”

“Sorry I’m not a better host but...” Nicole trails off, really not feeling physically or emotionally capable of getting back up and wrangling the crutches at this point. 

“It’s ok,” Rachel says, already moving to stand, “Just tell me where to look.”

“Kitchen’s through that way,” Nicole says, pointing, “Just raid the fridge and the pantry for whatever you can find. It’s gonna be about half vegan and half bacon, so pick a lane. I’m fine with either.”

If Rachel finds that odd, she doesn’t comment, trudging off through the doorway. 

Nicole knows she slept a little in the truck on the way home (despite her best efforts to stay awake), and Rachel might have slept a little in the waiting room at the hospital (Nicole’s not really sure) but other than that, it’s been thirty-six hours at break-neck speed with no rest. 

(Not literally break-neck, although — she shudders — _almost_ literally.)

Nicole chews on the corner of her lower lip, thinking. ‘Assess the situation,’ her training tells her. 

_Well, Waverly is God knows where, which is just stellar, and now Wynonna is gone too and —_

On second thought. Not that situation. 

‘Assess **this** situation.’ Right. 

_I’ve got an exhausted, grieving teenager that I don’t know, a busted leg in a full cast, and a shotgun._

Cool. 

“We wait,” she reminds herself — aloud, because it feels more real that way, “We just wait.” 

Rachel returns a few minutes later, still empty-handed. “I’m making mac n’ cheese,” she says and flops onto the armchair. “Water’s on.” 

“Thanks.”

An awkward silence descends on the room again as they remember that they know nothing about each other. 

Well, almost nothing. 

“Listen, Rachel. About your mom–“ 

Rachel sits up abruptly. “No. You do _not_ get to talk about that with me.” 

Nicole puts her hands up in surrender. “That’s fair. I’m just– I’m really sorry.” 

“I _said_ ,” Rachel snaps, “you don’t get to talk about that!” 

Nicole just nods, averting her gaze and picking at her torn uniform pants. In addition to the tears from her fall, the left leg is now cut off mid-thigh where the doctors removed it to accommodate the cast. She thinks about how her spares are still at the station and then thinks about how it doesn't matter.

The sound of water boiling over cuts through the tension. "You lost that right when you _lied_ ," Rachel says under her breath as she stomps into the kitchen.

This time she doesn’t come back until the pasta is cooked and drained and the cheese powder has been turned into sauce by (probably) oat milk. Nicole accepts the bowl handed to her but only manages to poke a few noodles around with her spoon. 

(Waverly likes to put Tapatio in her mac n’ cheese. Not the Kraft garbage they’re eating now, obviously, but the vegan version she would stock up on at the health foods market in the Big City once a month. Nicole wants to ask Rachel to see if they at least have Tabasco as a way-worse alternative, but she doesn’t.)

“Sorry for yelling at you earlier.” 

Nicole startles badly as she’s jerked from her hot-sauce-induced musings, but does a decent enough job of passing it off as a shrug. She exhales slowly, searching Rachel's face and remembering now it looked in the gate room — when she'd _realized_. Remembering how easy, how necessary it felt it the moment to hold that truth close to the vest. 'Anything for Waverly.' Even at the expense of this girl — to whom Nicole now owes her life.

“I'm sorry we lied to you. We should never have done that. Rachel, it's okay to be mad." 

Rachel goes silent so long, Nicole wonders if she's going to drop the conversation entirely. They eat in silence, Nicole offering her leftovers after Rachel devours her own bowl.

When Rachel does speak again, it's so quiet, Nicole can barely hear her. “It's not okay though. You’re my– I mean, I don’t have…" her voice falters, "I don’t have…” 

_Anybody else._

Nicole turns as best she can to face Rachel fully. “You’re mine too.” _The only one I've got left._

They lock eyes, and Nicole digs deep, trying to find the version of herself she offers to people on the job — at wellness checks, or responding to a car accident — to convey sympathy and compassion. She means it — of _course_ she means it — but she’s just _so tired_.

"If you do want to talk about her... later I mean," Nicole says, "you can."

Rachel's eyes dart up, but they're more questioning than angry, so Nicole adds: "When you're ready." 

"Yeah," Rachel says, "yeah okay."

Nicole leans her head back against the arm rest, allowing her eyes to close. She takes a deep breath and tries not to think about how this house has never, ever been so quiet.

"Nicole?"

"Mm?"

“Back at Monument... when you said you loved an angel — did you mean, like, a _real_ angel?” 

Nicole weighs her answer for a moment, eyes still closed. Tears spring up unbidden behind her eyelids. Her chest huffs with what she's sure is going to be a sob, but it comes out as a mirthless little laugh. “Would you believe me if I said yes?” 

Somehow, despite the utter bat-shit craziness of the past few days, this doesn’t seem to be the answer Rachel is expecting. “Really?” 

Nicole nods. "Really." The absurd truth of it all. She opens her eyes, but keeps her gaze fixed on the ceiling. 

“No shit.” 

“No shit indeed,” Nicole says.

“Will you tell me about her?”

Nicole looks up, surprised. She nods. “Okay.” 


End file.
